


Verging on Humanity

by ExperimentalMadness



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Other, TW: Child Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExperimentalMadness/pseuds/ExperimentalMadness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story collection depicting an AU in which Magneto's first child, Anya Lehnsherr, lives. How does she fit in with the larger X-Men and Marvel 'verse? Explores the formation of the Brotherhood, focuses on the beginnings of the Mutant/Human debate, and speculates on the father/daughter relationship between Erik and Anya that never was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire Escapes

**Author's Note:**

> Exactly what this says on the tin, folks. Each of these stories follows a non-linear pattern and are not connecting by chapters. They are self-contained episodic pieces. One story can have Anya be 19 and the next one could show her as five or six. This is basically just an AU headcanon concept that ran away from me, so I thought it would be neat to turn it into a short story fic collection! :)

Fire Escapes

Her father had told her specifically not to go outside.

So naturally, Anya had waited until he had gone for the night before going for a run through back alley streets.

The small Ukrainian town should feel just like coming back home. But the dirty alleys, patrolling officers, and broken down buildings felt more like a nightmare she thought left behind. They had been in this town for just over two months and already Anya couldn't wait to move on. They never stayed anywhere very long now. Always on the move. Always searching for more people like them.

Anya ran in long-legged strides, the hood of her black sweater pushed up as far as she could make it go. Even in the chill autumn breeze her face was flushed. She missed the dry, warm Israeli nights. She missed the city of Haifa with its ancient and narrow streets that she knew better than the lines of her hand. Anya let out a short gasp, a plume of fog wafting up from her mouth to steam the midnight air around her. She was pushing herself too far and too fast. She slowed down to a jog in order to catch her breath.

Her leg gave a little out from under her much like it had the day she had decided to jump from a second story balcony off the hospital grounds when she was nine. She had been lucky all she had broken was her arm. Her father had been furious, threatening to ban her from ever going outside on her own again without his permission. He had asked her over and over again what had possessed her. She never said. How could she tell him she wanted to see if she would fly?

It had been the start of a string of unusual injuries and recklessness. Broken fingers from punching cement walls in an attempt to shatter them, nearly drowning trying to breathe underwater, small burns along her forearm when she had summoned up enough courage to even dare see if she could manipulate fire. The end results were always the same: pain, a stern lecture, and the overwhelming sense of failure.

But now she was thirteen and not a child anymore. Trying to breathe underwater in the safety of a still pond was all well and good for childish experiments, but it was time to take the next step. An organism could be capable of a great many extraordinary things when put in sufficient danger. An adaptation present in the body might manifest given the right set of circumstances. Triggering the survival instinct was key.

A group of shadows moved together in her vision and Anya skidded to a halt as she nearly crashed into a group of young men loitering on the street.

"Pardon," she said, "Let me pass," her limited Ukrainian was broken at best.

The three men-boys more like, now that she had gotten a better look at them—walled her off. One gestured to her and said some words she did not understand. She raised her hands up, a disconcerted yet amiable smile on her face. "Sorry. Sorry." She repeated, hoping they realized that meant she did not understand.

The boy gestured even stronger until Anya realized he was pointing to her gold Star of David necklace and requesting that she give it to him. She tucked it under her sweater and shook her head. When the boys broke the wall and made a semi-circle around her Anya sighed, " _Ach, zur Hölle mit diesem,_ " before punching one of the boys in the face.

She ducked as one of them tried to make a grab at her and as she came back up she swung her leg up, kicking him in the side of the head. Honestly, they could at least show a little effort. The defense lessons she had taken back in Israel had led her to believe any opponent would at least try to put up a decent attack. A blow struck her on her forehead and she stepped back, momentarily dazed. Well that was more like it.

She tried to hold back. Let her body take over. She didn't know what to expect. A spark, some flash of power, the flicker of a muscle she had never felt before? Nothing came. Nothing ever did. Frustrated, Anya pummeled one of the boys against a broken iron fence. When he fell, half-conscious onto the street the other two boys lowered their fists and stepped back.

" _Gut, komm! Ist, dass alle sie haben? KOMMEN SIE!_ " Anya shouted, she knew they could understand her German better than she could their Ukrainian. The two boys went to pick up their dazed friend and Anya could hear them muttering. She understood a few words. Божевільна дівчина. Crazy girl.

She rolled her eyes as they left and tugged the hood of her sweater back over her head, hiding the new collection of bruises and cuts decorating her face. Her boot struck a fallen rusted metal pole and idly she reached out her hand to see if she might move it. Her blood was still up. She felt it pounding in her ears as the muscles in her arm locked up, straining against the air.

The iron bar stayed right where it was.

With an angry scream of frustration, Anya kicked the pole against the chain link fence and took off running once again, hot with humiliation.

After running down several wrong streets and alley ways unrecognizable, Anya finally found her way back to the flat she and her father were currently occupying. She hesitated to call those cramped rooms home. Home was back in Haifa, in the living quarters for orderlies in the hospital. Or home was in a small inn now only several miles away. She barely remembered it now. There were only flashes of a wood floor she used to play on, her mother's laugh, and a fire.

Anya jumped up onto the rail with a little too much force in an effort to push the thoughts of fire away from her. She scampered up the escape steps like a little black cat, leaping lightly onto the thin metal rail outside her bedroom window.

Suddenly she felt a tug around her waist as if from an invisible hand. Anya tried to steady herself, but she soon lost her grip on the rail. With a squeak she overbalanced, but found herself hovering in the open air. For one split second Anya thought she was flying. A smile broke wide on her face, but vanished just as quickly as she found herself being tugged through her open window against her own volition.

Her father, Erik Lehnsherr, was sitting quietly on her bed, guiding her into the room via the metal buckles on her belt. "Tell me, Anya, what might you do if you returned home this late into the night and found your child was missing?" The patient anger in his voice charged the air around her like a static shock.

"Ask her why she felt the need to leave in the first place," Anya gritted her teeth. She hated when he did this to her. She was still hovering above the floor, swinging useless about like a ragdoll.

"And?" her father asked. "Why did you?"

"Couldn't sleep,"

"Do you believe now is a good time to test me, Anya?"

"Why not? You are always testing me."

"Anya…"

"I went for a run," she answered finally as soon as he released her from the magnetic grip and she felt the hardwood floor against her boots. "The rooms here…they're too close. Needed to breathe."

"So you decided to deliberately disobey me. Anya, how many times must we—what happened to you?" Her father tilted Anya's chin up in order to examine the collection of cuts and bruises marking her face.

"Ran into the fire escape rail trying to get up," Anya lied smoothly, her eyes never once wavering from her father's narrowing gaze.

There was silence for a moment as they stared one another down. Anya clenched her fists and moved them behind her back in order to hide the scrapes on her knuckles. If her father didn't believe her, which Anya was certain of, he did not press the matter further.

"Come," he said with a curt jerk of his head towards the door. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Anya followed with a reluctant step. It was barely two paces towards the kitchen from her room. Anya felt herself growing smaller the more she moved through the cramped flat. The kitchen was right up against the wall and Anya felt as if it was rearing up to smother her. She remembered a wooden beam falling right in front her. A shower of embers flying up in all directions with only a broken window behind her, fire all around her and no way out. No way out. She grimaced, tossing her head with a shrug of her shoulders. Anya sat in one of the old wooden chairs by the small table, staring down the wall as she would anyone she was preparing to fight.

Her focus broke apart at the sound of the very well used tin first-aid kit being placed on the table. She groaned as her father took a cotton swap and doused it with iodine. He chided her as he dabbed at the cut above her eyebrow, "That is what you get for starting fights with fire escapes."

Anya hissed as the iodine burned the open cuts on her face, but she said nothing in reply. When she tried to wriggle away from the swap, she felt herself become stuck fast against the back of the chair virtually immobile as her father held her magnetically in place.

"This must stop, Anya," her father said as he taped a bandage over her eyebrow.

"What must stop?" she inquired with an innocent tilt of her head.

Her father shot a glare at her that made her wilt in her seat. "I know you are still upset over leaving Israel." He shut the kit and pulled up a chair.

"That was nearly three years ago." Anya interrupted, sitting up straighter while blowing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes.

"Yet still you insist on behaving like a reckless child so you can imagine my disbelief."

"I'm not upset," Anya insisted. "I'm not."

Her gaze dropped to the table as she tongued a small cut on the corner of her lips. Her fingers curled on the edge of the chair and she swung her legs back and forth, the toe of her boots tapping on the hardwood.

"Tea, I think. And then bed for you."

Erik's chair whined, its legs scraping the kitchen tiles as Erik pushed back against it. Anya twisted around in her seat, holding on to the back of the chair as she watched Erik fill an old kettle with water before placing it on the stove top.

"Did you find any?" Anya asked as Erik lit the stove. "Any mutants?"

There was silence for a moment as Erik pulled down two mugs from the cabinet above the stove. "No."

The silence was how Anya knew he was probably lying to her. Her father never lied to her when he could help it. So if he wouldn't tell her the truth now, it was probably with good reason. Anya forced down the feeling of disappointment at being kept out of her father's plans. "Maybe next time...next time I could come with you?" her voice was small, hesitant. "That way you won't have to worry about me and I could meet some of the other mutants. I would really-"

"Someday soon, Anya. When you are older."

Anya knew what he meant. _When you have your abilities._ Anya's face burned with embarrassment. It wasn't her fault she hadn't been able to activate her powers yet! The kettle whistled shrilling in the silent aftermath of her questions.

"Papa, when we find more mutants what will we do?" She drew invisible lines into the table with her finger.

"Anya, we have discussed this many times before," Erik sighed as he set a mug before her and resumed his seat.

"Tell me again anyway."

Anya placed her hands on either side of the mug. She liked how the heat made her cold fingers tingle.

"The humans are only just beginning to learn about us. When they see how we are and what we can do they will panic. They will fear us."

"Hate us," Anya finished.

Erik nodded. "Mutants will need to be united against that hatred. We must help build a force stronger than anything the humans could hope to fight against."

"I want to help, Papa. When we find more mutants we will offer them shelter. We will give them a real home. They will never have to be scared again. Never need to run."

"That is exactly what we must create, Anya. A world without fear."

Anya smiled to herself as she sipped her tea. The steam curled about her face, and she felt her skin prick at the heat, but her eyes were already burning with a different fire. She thought of the boys who had tried to steal her necklace in the alley. Stupid and petty humans. They had turned and run from her just as her father would make all of humanity run from him. She saw her father's dream as clearly as she could see her own. A world without a need for fear or the foolish prejudices that bogged this one down. Unconsciously she gripped her necklace, feeling the points make marks in her palm. A world where mutants could share their powers freely instead of secretly for fear of discovery and punishment. A world where she need not be shut up inside any longer, where she and other children might be safe to go abroad whenever they so wished. A world where she would have her powers. Where she might not be hidden and could take her place proudly amongst her own kind. She wanted it so badly she could taste it.

She heard her father sigh alongside her. "Anya, I wish I might be able to spare you from the war that is about to come."

"I'm not scared, Papa," Anya said, her face still flushed with the fervor of imaginings. "I can fight."

Erik laughed and tousled her hair. "I know you can, my tiger. I have no doubt that when your power emerges it may even rival my own."

Anya tried a laugh at her father's light teasing, but she could not ignore the sudden drop in the pit of her stomach as the fragments of her daydreams died. She tapped her fingernails on the ceramic of the mug nervously. "Papa...what if I...if I don't...what if I'm not..."

"Finish your tea and get to bed, Anya. We will need to make an early start in the morning." Erik said, snatching his hand away from her, his tone suddenly brusque.

"Yes, Papa." Anya gulped down the rest of her tea, not minding overmuch how it burned the roof of her mouth slightly. She stood up a little too hastily. "Good night."

Half way down the hall she paused and ran back, taking her father by surprise with a hug. "I'm sorry for disobeying you," she said. "I will not do it again."

"Oh, I'm sure you will manage to do so once or twice yet. Now. Bed. Go on."

Anya backed away towards her room with a smile on her face, but as soon as she had shut the door the smile vanished. She did not bother turning on the small lamp on the nightstand by her bed. Instead, she pulled off her boots in the dark and leapt up to sit upon the edge of the bed that was no bigger than a cot.

Her hands were folded in her lap as she found herself staring into the comforting darkness of her room. All she saw; however, was the look of startled disappointment in her father's eyes when she dared to suggest she might not have powers at all. It was worse than the nightmares. Worse than the memory of the fire. Worse than the sudden midnight run out of Israel. Those faded if she thought hard enough about other things. This was always there. Hiding in the corner of every word she never spoke, of every doubting glance her father shot her way.

No. No! Anya pounded the sides of her head, ignoring the bruises on her temple and the cuts on her cheeks. There was still time. They were both still learning how mutant powers could be activated. Her time would come. She could not wait to be able to show her father that was a true mutant. Maybe then he would look at her with real pride again the way he used to, not these halfhearted, contrived falsehoods he thought she couldn't see behind.

She rubbed her forehead. The cut above her brow was stinging again.

Anya curled up on the bed. She had better heed her father's words at least this one time. They would need to wake early if they meant to leave this town as her father promised. She tried to ignore the twisting inside of her as she prayed as she did every night that the world her father was fighting so hard to build would still have room for her.


	2. Speech

Speech

Anya traced her fingers over the delicately printed lines of a fountain's image. Her fingers followed the carefully painted patterns, tracing it until she hit the ornate vines that snaked up the edges of the page, framing the scene of Scheherazade walking through the palace halls. The copy of Arabian Nights was an old one, practically falling apart near the spine, but Anya had already read it cover to cover once before and it had survived the abuse thus far.

The small balcony provided rough cushioning, but it was the ideal spot for late night reading. Anya's legs were stuck through the gaps in the wooden guardrail, the dry summer breeze pricking her knees and ankles. She propped the book between her chest and the wooden post directly in front of her, balancing it precariously as she flipped a page. Her eyes wandered away from the black and white façade of long ago Arabia as she stared at the lights of Haifa a few miles out in the blackness of midnight. It was comforting watching the glow of the city; it was a like a night-lamp that could never be switched off.

The cool slice of the balcony door sliding open behind her broke the tranquility Anya had slowly been sinking into. She hadn't noticed her forehead had been touching the pages of her book, brown hair marring the spotless halls of the Shah's palace.

"What are you doing out here?" Erik asked. There was mild annoyance that even Anya could detect, but patience too, brought on by only by the lateness of the hour.

"Reading,"

"You can read in the morning. You should be in bed."

"Not tired."

Her words planted themselves firmly like stubborn stomps of feet. Her little hands gripped the cover of her book tightly.

"It's past midnight, Anya. No arguments."

She felt her father tugging at the back collar of her pajama top and she hunched over, latching her legs around the post before her, squeezing both book and arms against the rail. "Not tired. Not tired. Not tired!"

"Nightmares again?" Erik asked, realizing that force was not going to shift her.

"No," Anya lied. "I just wanna read. I don't need to sleep."

"What? And have you be a perfect beast in the morning?"

"It is morning, actually."

Erik had to stifle a reluctant laugh at his daughter's arrogance. Giving up with a sigh, he sat down beside her. Anya remained clutching the book, staring out towards the city with a determined eye. She liked it out here. She liked the desert in the darkest part of the night when everything was cool. It was the first thing about her new home that she liked. Everything went unbalanced at this hour. The hottest part of the world could be the coldest if she just waited long enough. It was like running water over a burn. She unconsciously fingered one of the myriad of burn marks on her arm. Anya didn't really remember the hospital after the fire. She remembered being unable to move, bound tight with bandages constricting her chest, arms and legs. She felt them at her throat as well and she remembered a nurse who thought she was being kind when she told her she was lucky the burns never reached her face, but Anya could clearly recall the acrid smell of when the ends of her hair had started to burn and she did not feel so lucky then.

But she remembered the pain. And her parents screaming, screaming.

Anya buried her head in the pages of her book as she started to cry involuntarily. Her tears stained the old pages, making the image of the fountain look as if it was truly flowing with water. Sometimes this happened. Sometimes she could be doing nothing at all and suddenly she would feel like the walls were caving in around her as they did back in her old room when it caught fire. And she could smell the smoke, feel it embedded in her lungs even when all it was was the knot of tears choking off the air. She coughed, hiccupped, and gagged.

Somewhere that felt miles away, Anya heard her father try to calm her down, to get her to breathe before she suffocated herself. She refused to lift her head up.

"Anya, _ketsela_ , look. Open your eyes."

Still choking on her own breath, Anya obeyed her father. What she saw promptly silenced all further tears. She was hovering inches above the balcony. Her eyes widened as she uncurled and found that she was capable of moving through the air as she would swim through a calm lake.

"I'm…I'm flying? But…how?"

Erik merely shrugged his shoulders. Anya perched herself on the railing before launching herself into the thin air. She could not help the shrieking laugh that emerged from her as she realized she was still up high and hovering over the ground below. A marvelous sense of absolute freedom washed over her changing her former restless, and sorrowful state into a determined, vicious happiness. She somersaulted in the air and looked at her father from upside-down. "Magic?" she asked, not that she had ever really believed in such things.

"Perhaps."

Anya was too wonderstruck to care how peculiarly vague her father was behaving. She crawled through air like it was new skin to wear. The feeling of weightlessness was delightful. It was as if she could not even feel herself exist. She had disappeared entirely. She rolled herself sideways, pulling the air about her like a blanket.

"Fly yourself inside now, Anya," Erik said as he stood.

Anya half glided half swam through the air through the open door back into her room. Erik followed behind and caught her under her arms. All at once, Anya felt the weightless thrill of flight abandon her. Her limbs became heavy with the tug of gravity and she sunk under the pull of it. Briefly she felt an indescribable sadness at the loss of the numbness of flying, but she could not help the small laughter that escaped her involuntarily as her father tossed her into the air, only to catch her again.

She slipped from her father's grasp and leapt upon her bed with a graceless flop.

"Now to sleep, _ketsela_ ," Erik said as Anya crawled under the covers. "No more nightmares." He bent down and kissed her forehead, smoothing aside her hair.

"Papa," Anya said quietly as she rolled over onto her side. "I miss Mama."

"I...I miss her too."

Anya bunched the ends of her quilts between her small hands, in an effort to clam the sudden tension deep in her chest. She never spoke of her mother. She knew better than to bring her up. She felt a wave of disappointment at her own weakness. It was suddenly so very hard to breathe again and Erik seemed to feel, even before he saw Anya's breathing tighten to shallow gasps.

"You know what?" Erik said.

"What?" Anya gasped, watching curiously as her father stepped back out onto the balcony. He returned holding her book.

"Why don't I read to you until you fall asleep?"

"Really?" Anya asked as she released her death-grip on the quilts, and made room for her father upon the bed.

"Absolutely." Erik flipped on the small lamp by on the nightstand. "Now, where were you?" he asked, opening the book and flipping through the pages until Anya stopped him.

"See?" Anya said as she curled up next to her father. "Told you I didn't need to sleep."

"Of course not, _ketsela_ , of course not."

But Erik had barely gotten through five pages before he felt Anya drift, thankfully, into a calmed sleep.

***

"Hello there, Anya."

Anya recognized the voice of the man speaking to her before she bothered to look up from her book. Charles Xavier was a friend at least that was what her father told her. Anya thought he seemed a rather kind man. He always made a point to talk to her almost every day, even when he knew she wouldn't say anything in reply. But she never spoke to anyone apart from her father. Somehow, she could never fathom the energy it would take to force her words out of her to give over to strangers.

She kicked her heels backwards against her chair. She often would sit out in the garden for the better half of the afternoon, only going inside to retrieve more books from the small collection available. The clinic's patients would also be outside in their wheelchairs, or sitting upright in the lawn chairs with a blanket draped over their laps. She liked the other patients. Most of them couldn't speak either and she liked them for their shared silence.

"What is it that you're reading?" Charles craned his head in order to see the book's title. "A Children's Guide to Prehistoric Life?" Charles laughed, "Harrowing material for a child. Are you enjoying it?"

Anya curled her fingers around the hard edges of her book. She went bright red in the face as she bit the inside of her cheek. She forced herself to nod. Luckily, she was spared from any further attempts at conversation by the arrival of her father. Without further prompting, she snapped shut her book and trundled over to him.

"Erik? What's the matter?" Charles asked, noting his friend's frustrated scowl.

Erik merely shook his head. "Some of the volunteers were scheduled to assist during the night shift. I tried to…reason, with the doctor who put together such an idiotic schedule, but we're short staffed of late. And it appears the concerns of a father have to be overruled."

Anya was only half sure of what was being discussed, but she knew she did not like it one bit based her father's constrained anger. She gave his sleeve a nervous tug, wanting them to finish their argument so they could go home.

"Anya, sweetheart, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have you stay in the children's wing tonight."

She promptly shook her head in an adamant refusal. "There'll be other nurses there to look after you, and I promise I'll come by before you go to sleep."

Anya continued to shake her head. She had had to stay in the children's wing of the clinic one time before while Erik worked through the night. She hated it. It felt like being back in the hospital in Russia. And even though she wasn't strapped in to any of the machines, or made immobile with bandages, she couldn't stand the nurses coming in with their reassuring faces asking if she was all right. It hadn't mattered anyway. She had spent most of the night screaming. Even when her father finally came for her, she was already too far gone to care. Anya refused to speak to him for two days after that miserable event.

"Why don't I look after Anya for the night?"

Charles' sudden volunteer caught both Anya and Erik by surprise. Anya was certain he looked mildly distressed as well, which confused her.

"Charles…are you sure?"

"What important engagements could I possibly have? Besides, Anya and I get along just fine, don't we, Anya?"

Erik looked towards his daughter, "It's whatever you want, _ketsela._ "

Anya's eyes flicked from her father to Charles. What she wanted was to be allowed to go to her own home, but that was out of the question for the night. But anything was better than being made to sleep in the hospital so she nodded her head and pointed at Charles. Erik sighed. "Thank you, my friend. Give Anya and I an hour to collect her things and then we'll meet you."

As Anya walked away hand-in-hand with her father she felt that perhaps tonight would not be so bad.

***

"You needn't sit in silence all evening, Anya," Charles said after stepping out of his study to find the little girl sitting in the armchair with her stack of books that she had brought with her. The moment she had arrived she had made herself a nest on that chair and had refused to move. Charles had disappeared into his own private study for a few hours in the hopes of making the girl feel more comfortable. She was a skittish girl, and Charles knew solitude was something she found comforting.

Charles walked over slowly, his hands in his pockets. Anya followed him with attentive eyes, marking his every movement with all the wariness of a cornered animal. He took a seat in the chair adjacent to hers. Anya swung her legs nervously and tapped her fingers on the edge of her book her fingers curling into claws around the binding.

"Perhaps we could talk about what it is you are reading?" Charles asked.

Silence.

"A bit tiring isn't it? Talking?" Charles asked, changing tactics with a small smile on his face. "Having to think about what to say and how to say it. Takes energy, that. Especially when there are so many strangers in the world and you don't know what's in their thoughts." Charles winced a little as he rubbed the temples of his forehead. Anya was flashing him a confused look. Her face was flushing read with words burning on her tongue.

"And I think if I had been through half as much as you have in your lifetime I shouldn't waste my time speaking needlessly either." Charles said, still rubbing at his forehead, looking as if he was suffering a sudden headache. "But Anya, if it is something else keeping you silent, if it is fear, then you should not let such fears control you forever."

Anya pretended not to listen to him. She buried her face in her book and made a show of flipping through the pages, staring into them intensely. She brought her legs up and onto the chair's cushion, propping the book up on her knees.

"Your father talks about you often," Charles said. "Oh, don't look so surprised!" he remarked at the shocked expression on Anya's face, her forced concentration shattered. "He's rather proud of you." Charles noted the disbelief on her face. "You don't believe me?"

Anya shook her head.

"Why?"

Anya bit her tongue and turned bright red in the face, her hands trying to leave indents in the pages of her book.

"You have so many thoughts in your head. Each one of the trying to get out before the other. Constantly worried about saying the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time. That is a rather frightening prospect, Anya, you don't have to be ashamed of it, you only have to decide how much power you want to let your fears have over you. And you know, with everything that you have seen and survived, I think you are the bravest young lady I have ever had the privilege of meeting."

And what was she supposed to do with words like that, Anya thought? Charles seemed to mean well, but he was wrong. She was positive he was so very wrong. She was not brave in the least. She cried at the drop of a pin. Almost everything terrified her. Sometimes she could barely breathe. Everything could be too close and she just wanted to push it all away, kick and scream for no reason, and she didn't think it would ever stop.

Then there was a voice in her head that didn't belong to her. No, not a voice. Merely a few fragmented words and images asking her to be calm, to not be afraid. They couldn't be her own thoughts. But as suddenly as the inexplicable broken words filtered into her mind the tightness in her chest lessened and she felt the world spin back into clearer focus. Her breathing slowed, her mind went still and for the first time in a very long while the world was blissfully quiet and free of panic.

Anya leaned back in her chair, feeling as if she had strings cut away from her. She was aware that Charles was watching her, but he did not seem at all concerned. Anya felt the pages of her book, dropping her gaze to the image of the large and imposing Pterodactyl. She traced the wingspan of the creature. Her little finger taking several seconds to trail up from the back of the wing towards the tip.

"Is this is your favorite dinosaur, then?" Charles asked, leaning over slightly to look at the page she was so intent upon staring at. Anya could sense he was trying to change the subject again to put her at ease. That was kind of him. She appreciated that. Because everything was still so calm, so quiet and she didn't want to think of the outside or of the fears in her head.

"Pterodactyl is not a dinosaur," Anya whispered very faintly. "It's a pterosaur. Pterosaurs are not dinosaurs. They are different."

"So they are," Charles said with equal softness. He smiled, "Not many little girls would know a thing like that."

Anya shrugged her shoulders.

"I believe now we can properly introduce one another," he held out his hand, "Hello, I'm Charles Xavier."

Anya shook his hand with one still shaking with trepidation. She looked astonished with herself. "Hello, Charles," she said. Each word was still testing her boundaries. Her voice strained against the urge to shut itself away again. "I'm Anya Lehnsherr."

"I am very pleased to finally meet you, Anya."

"I think...yes...me too."

Anya bit her lip and looked down at her book before scooting herself up on her knees and pushing the book so that it rested on the large armrest. "Would you like me to teach you more about dinosaurs?" she asked.

Charles laughed quietly, "I am all attention."

Anya smiled. The sensation left her rather elated, almost as if she were floating above herself. She could feel panic at the edge of her mind, wanting her teeth to chatter until she clamped her mouth shut again. No. She thought. No. No more silence. The fear was everywhere and would always be everywhere, but just for now Anya pretended that the fear no longer existed.


	3. Faster On The Drop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to use several translators to help me out with some of the dialogue. I am not certain if it is 100% accurate at all, but it was all I had to work with at the time. Apologies for the poor translation work.

Faster On The Drop

"Line 'em up. Line 'em up. Line 'em up," Anya whispered as she stared down the scope of her M91/30. From her vantage point on the roof of an old warehouse, she could see the length of the street. She heard the motorcycle before she saw it. It came screaming down the alley, kicking dust and gravel. Anya focused her aim. She had one shot.

The cyclist wasn't wearing a helmet. From here Anya could pull the trigger and take most of his head off. Not that she hadn't thought about it, but rules were rules. Anya waited until the bike sped closer. Nearly down the next street now. Anya wondered if he could taste the idea of escape now. No one was chasing him. Didn't they ever wonder about that fact, or were they all as dumb as bricks? No matter. The motorcycle banked a sharp left in an effort to make a tight curve into an alley that would leave Anya blind.

"No you don't," Anya tsked, and fired.

The bullet tore into the tire, causing the bike to veer wildly out of its turn. It spun like a mad horse, throwing its rider a good few feet into the air. Anya aimed the rifle onto the prone and dazed man lying on the asphalt below. Even from here she could see the blood dripping down his face where the gravel had cut into him. Her scope marked a space directly between his eyes.

"Bang."

Anya looked up from the scope, fingers off the trigger. Quietly she set about dismantling the rifle and putting it into her case. She wasn't allowed to kill targets. It made her hands itch like crazy with the feeling that she had left work undone. Anya, slung the straps of her rifle case over her shoulder and took a few steps back away from the left side of the rooftop before taking a running leap off the building.

Anya counted five seconds of pure flight before she reached out and grabbed hold of the fire escape on the opposite wall. She slammed into the ladder with a force that made her teeth chatter and the rail slide from its mooring. Anya rode the ladder down the building, leaping off of it a little before the first story. She tucked into a roll as she hit the ground to keep her momentum.

Anya made it a point to keep her eyes on the target. But when she was finally in the clear it took her by surprise to find the wrecked motorcycle abandoned by its owner. Swearing under her breath, Anya pulled out her revolver from the holster on her hip. The man could not have gotten far, not with the head injury she had given him. Didn't matter, she mentally berated herself. Took her eyes off the target for one second to play hot shot at leaping tall buildings in a single bound, and now her quarry was in the wind. And just when she thought this whole job was getting too easy.

Stars suddenly exploded in her vision as someone struck her from her behind. Anya bit back a groan and struggled to defy her body's desire to crumple uselessly onto the street. Instead she met herself halfway by landing on her knees. Luckily, she still possessed enough sense to turn herself around to face her attacker, gun at the ready. She found herself staring down the barrel of another pistol.

"You're not nearly as stupid as most of your comrades," Anya said as her vision evened out.

The man standing over her had blood dripping from multiple gashes on his face from the fall he had taken. His expression was a mixture of militant apathy and slight surprise, a little variety on the usual contemptuous, indignant looks Anya was used to getting.

"So. They are out of men to do their work so Mossad sends a child instead?"

"I realize how aggravating that must be for you." Anya slowly rose back onto her feet. Her skull continued to pound and the very base of her head was a pinpoint of sharp pain, but she kept her gun trained on the man.

"Do you even know how to shoot a gun, girl?"

"I don't know," Anya spat, "I made quick work of your motorcycle didn't I?"

"I mean do you know how to shoot a man point blank? Very different than sniping at vehicles from a distance."

"Lucky for you then that I'm not here to shoot you. If I was. You would be dead."

"Big words for a little girl," the man smiled. Anya decided she preferred the usual looks of contempt. "But you will not be making any arrests today, I think. There have already been two agents sent to collect me. I had no trouble shooting them. What makes you think I won't do the same to you?"

"If you shot me you would not be walking out of this conversation alive. I would not advise it."

"Thank you for informing me that you are not alone."

Anya bristled internally, but she was careful not to let her aggravation show on her face. "If you think you can talk your way out then you are far from the mark." She came down hard on her final words and she knew even that slight inflection betrayed her annoyance.

"Then you really give me no other choice."

Anya's eyes widened as she saw the man push against the trigger. "No! Wait!"

The gunshot echoed her already sore head and she winced, shutting her eyes against the blast. When she opened them she heaved a sigh and lowered her gun. She stared first in casual frustration at the slowly spinning bullet that had been frozen inches from her forehead and then to the man who hung suspended a foot off the ground. It was the first time Anya detected any real hint of emotion to the man: one of total and absolute terror and confusion.

Anya gave the bullet a light push and called out to someone behind her newly acquired prisoner. "I told you it would be unwise to shoot me." She threw her entire weight behind her punch, knocking the man unconscious with the revolver still clutched in her fist.

"And," she added with an exasperated shout towards the street, "I told you to wait!"

"Wait for you to get yourself shot?"

"I had everything under control," Anya huffed, turning around as her father walked casually out of the back alley directly behind the unconscious man.

"So I noticed."

Anya's scowl deepened as her father levitated a metal pipe and bent it around the man's wrists in makeshift shackles. She holstered her gun and pulled up on the straps of her rifle case, feeling suddenly overburdened and clumsy.

"Too slow on the drop." Erik said gesturing to her rifle, indicating he had been timing her from the moment she had fired her first shot.

"I know."

"You'll be faster next time, _ketsela._ "

"Yes, Papa."

***

Anya leapt from the second story balcony onto the lawn below. She tucked into a roll and spun herself around so that she landed on one knee. Her gun was out of its holster and her hands in the same instant. She could do this in approximately thirty seconds. So drilled it until she had it down in twenty. And then, sweat-soaked and practically panting like a dog, she tried for fifteen and hated herself for every single second she was off from her impossible goal.

Maybe she would try for ten tomorrow.

Anya had just enough remaining energy to limp back inside the house and into the bathroom. She started running the water in the bath. Her clothes were stuck to her skin and it was luxurious enough just to get them off. She tumbled into the warm tub and quickly submerged herself in the water, feeling her muscles go slack for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours. Anya closed her eyes and leaned back against the porcelain wall.

She did like it here. Buenos Aires far exceeded her expectations for she was still determined to hate every other city she came across until her luck took her back to Israel where she belonged. The childhood home was starting to feel more like some half-remembered dream, but she focused herself on the details, determined to keep it in her mind's eye. But she had only been nine when she had left Haifa. She was nearly seventeen now. Everything was a blurred pastel, even in her mind.

Besides, there was so much work to be done here.

Water dripped onto the mat alongside the tub as Anya eased herself out. Her legs still felt wobbly, but infinitely better. She wrapped a towel around herself and trudged off to her room. A change of clothes was in order. Anya slipped on a pair of loose fitting pants and a shirt that was twice her size.

The house they were currently living in was much bigger than anything Anya was used to. She had become accustomed to the small flats in crowded buildings, but here they were on the outskirts of the city, trying to blend in with the rest of the families in their sprawling half-urban and half-rural neighborhood. For all of their neighbors concern they were simply a normal family. Anya smiled as she walked downstairs and into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. If only they knew what was really going on behind those conveniently high fences. The large backyard had been converted into her own personal training facility and she had turned the cellar into a shooting range. She was good with guns the same way she was proficient in every other aspect of her life: she trained. And did nothing else until her assignment was done right.

Anya knocked on the door down the hall. Not waiting for a response she made her way inside. Erik was sitting at a small desk, pouring over a stack of books. Anya could just barely see him. He was hunched over and furiously taking notes between his readings. Anya took a small sip of water before placing the glass on the little table by one of the bookshelves in the corner. She snuck around over to her father's desk and craned her head to read the spines of the books. He was far too absorbed to notice her presence. Taking her time, Anya selected one of the books and made her way over to a chair.

"Give that here."

"Hey, you have ten books over there. I just want the one."

"Anya. Now."

She couldn't help but laugh, although it felt strained in her own ears. "Of course. It must be so important for you to have—" she tilted the book to read the cover. " _Theories of Genetic Manipulation_ …." She brought the book back over to him with a small frown.

Anya grabbed the second and third book she could find stacked on her father's desk. " _Advanced Study of Gene Alteration? Theories of Dormant Gene Activation?_ " She looked from the books to her father, who was covering his notes with suspicious casualty.

"Hoping to find a way to accelerate the evolutionary process in humans, father? You think you can make them more like _us_?" She stressed her final words just a little too carefully.

He had that look to him. A regrettable guilty look. He had it whenever he tried to explain things to her he thought she was too young to understand. But she knew her father harbored little to no benevolence towards humans, so this research could hardly be solely for their future benefit. She clenched her hands, a red flush of humiliation creeping up her face. With quick, spasmatic movements Anya shoved over the stack of books onto the floor.

It wasn't her fault she didn't have any abilities yet, Anya wanted to scream. She never would though. She hadn't had a proper shouting match with her father in nearly two years. Now it was thin-lipped words and barely concealed phrases dripping with cynicism. Even this small outburst had startled her. Embarrassed by her lack of control, Anya stalked away.

"Are you looking for an excuse to be sent to your room?" Erik called after her.

"Don't bother," Anya snapped. "I'll see myself out."

The door was slammed behind her before she allowed her father to come up with a scathing retort. She blew a strand of wet hair out of her face in a harsh gasp of frustration. From down the hall, Anya could hear the echo of the phone ringing.

Anya felt her frustration vanish for a brief moment. She nearly wrenched the door open again to get her father. No one called them on this line. No one save for a handler she had never met. She paused with her hand on the doorknob. Did she need her father to answer a damn telephone now? Was she a child in every sense of the word?

She ran down the hall, leaving the door to her father's study shut and leaving the man inside oblivious. Anya picked up the phone, her hand shaking with her own bravado. She knew better than to talk. While she never answered these calls, she had seen her father do it hundreds of times. You were never supposed to talk.

A voice on the other end of the line patiently listed a set of numbers that Anya knew to be coordinates. She scribbled them on the pad of paper by the receiver and was careful not to hang up the phone until she heard a sharp click from the other end first. Trembling she approached the map of the city and plotted the given coordinates. They ran along the edge of Palermo Viejo. It wasn't far. Not at all, in fact, only a few short bus rides away.

She made a mark on the paper of the exact line-up of the given coordinators and tore the paper from the pad. She folded it with meticulous care. Her legs seemed to move of their own volition as she once again went down the hall. She knocked on the study door and opened it.

"I'm going for a walk," the lie was slick as oil and it tasted foul.

Erik looked up at Anya, measuring the weight of her words against his former request of sending her straight to her room. He nodded. "Be back before sunset."

She nodded back and shut the door. Thrilled with herself she tore upstairs to her room and grabbed her boots and her holster. Her revolver was lying on her dresser. She loaded it and stuffed it in the holster while zipping up a jacket over it. Anya examined herself in the mirror. She tried to picture herself like the other civilians would upon seeing her. She looked normal. Like a regular girl about to spend an evening out with her friends downtown. She had seen some of the other girls her age out with friends. Laughing, drinking. They always looked like conspirators in some great plot. The black jacket wasn't fashionable, but it wasn't ostentatious enough to make her stick out like a sore thumb in the crowd. She a little pocket change. Enough for a bus ride to Palermo and back at any rate.

Breathing out she dared herself to meet her eyes in the mirror. Sure about this? Her reflection seemed to ask her. If Papa hadn't paralyzed the man last time you'd be dead! But that was this morning. She was faster on the drop now. Twenty seconds faster. She made herself move, out the room, down the hall, and out the door. The late afternoon breeze felt cool against the thin layer of sweat forming underneath her layers of clothing. She broke into a jog. It was a bit of a walk to the nearest bus stop, and Anya was certain she could make it there in half the time.

***

There was always a second point of contact. At first Anya had always viewed them as a sort of back up and it had been comforting for the first few harrowing missions, but she had been significantly younger than. Now she viewed the contacts as a hindrance at best and at worst an extra pair of eyes that she wondered followed her everywhere. The contact in Buenos Aires was suspiciously friendly. An Israeli man who couldn't be much older than twenty. Anya spotted him before she had need to double check that she had the proper location. He was leaning against a lamp post outside of a café, lighting up a cigarette. Taking a cue from his casual appearance, Anya sauntered up the street towards him.

She nearly walked right past him, anxious not to make it obvious she was there to meet him. He tapped her on the shoulder and smiled at her. She smiled back. They must have looked like friends planning a meeting to the outside observer. And he might be the closest thing she had to a friend, Anya thought.

" _Ham aba shelk yevd' shath kan?_ "

"Ken."

He had an amused look on his face. She didn't like it. " _Heva shelh ley 'el qedyemh._ "

They always had the same expression: incredulous amusement. She could handle it from the other contacts. They had been older, and they probably thought her father was half mad for dragging her through this hunt, but she was maybe only two years younger than this man. He had no right to make such faces at her. He took a drag from his cigarette and gestured, with a flick of his ashes, in the direction of a small novelty shop down the street.

The man slipped her his packet of cigarettes, wished her luck, and walked on. Anya made sure to walk down two more blocks and turn a corner before she opened the packet. There were two pictures inside. An older picture of a man in uniform and a more recent one. Hesitation took root in her chest very suddenly. How was she going to do this? Even if she managed this, even if she managed to catch her target how would she bring him to be collected? With steadier hands than Anya thought she deserved, she folded up the photographs and stuffed them in her jacket pocket. The cigarette packet she crumpled up and threw in the nearest bin. She could do this. She had been for the past several years.

In an effort to bolster her resolve, Anya wondered if she was technically a proper agent. If she was wouldn't she be the youngest ever? Unlikely. Her father probably had arranged it so she would be strictly off the record. He hadn't even had wanted her involved, but he should have thought of that before putting a gun in her hands at fourteen.

Anya approached the shop. The light was still on and she could see an older man restocking the shelf behind the counter. She pulled open the door and stepped inside.

" _Buenas noches._ "

The man's Spanish was heavily accented, the same as her own would be. Except the man's accent was distinctly German. Her own voice was such a convoluted mixture of languages she had no idea what she must sound like to the rest of the world. She made a show of touring the small shop, turning over antiques and other knick-knacks. The revolver in her holster rubbed up against her legs.

" _Buscando un regalo?_ "

Anya reached a hand through her coat, grabbing the handle of her gun and drawing it out. She turned, pointing the revolver at the man. She saw him jump and immediately put his hands up. It was a small wonder, but her own hands had stopped shaking finally.

" _Wissen Sie, warum ich hier bin?_ " Anya said calmly.

The man was backed against the shelf. Before she had spoken she had noted the shock in the man's eyes. He had thought of her as a thief, probably, Anya thought. Someone desperate for whatever easy cash was in the till no matter how small the amount. Now, though, now he looked terrified and Anya knew he understood.

Once the shock had faded his tongue became unstuck to the roof his mouth and the man began to babble apologies and such a rate Anya could barely understand him. She had seen others behave in such a manner. When they did so before her father sometimes he executed them on sight. There was no rule that stated all their targets need be brought in alive. Anya stayed perfectly still and remarkably calm. Her expression never changed from the one of impassive steel as she listened to the man pleading with her. When there was a lull in his speech, and he stood panting in silence, Anya spoke up softly.

" _Sollen wir für zu Fuß gehen?_ " Anya wondered how she could sound so at ease when her heart was rattling in her ribs like they were a prison cage. All she needed was to get him outside. They were going to take a walk.

Anya noticed the man fumbling with an object behind his back nearly too late. She ducked just as a bullet flew over head and shattered ceramics behind her. She swore as she rolled upright, only to see her target fleeing out a back door. Anya leapt over the countertop in pursuit. The man was fast for his age. Anya sprinted to catch him up.

The alley was empty. He knocked over trash bins in an effort to block the path, but Anya swung herself up onto the bins and used them as a springboard to keep her momentum up as she landed hard on her feet and kept running. The man fired his gun again, but it was a wild shot and way off the mark. Anya ignored it and kept running.

" _Stopp!_ " Anya shouted. " _Ich möchte nicht Sie schießen._ " She was only half lying. She would shoot if she had too.

She gained ground on her target and tripped him up, kicking his legs out from under him. The man toppled ungainly forward. " _Genug._ " She said. Enough. Not bad, she thought as he stared up at her. He would put the gun down and she was going to lead him out of the alley and back to her point of contact.

" _Sie sind so jung,_ " he said.

_You are so young._

She saw him raise his gun. His finger tightening on the trigger. His hands were shaking, yet his eyes didn't seem remorseful.

Anya's revolver went off first.

Clean shot. Between his eyes. His arm went slack. Blood obscured his face. Anya heard nothing but a high-pitched ringing in her ears.

She lowered her gun and stared at her handiwork. The curtain of adrenaline was beginning to close, leaving her shaking. She took a step back as if to reject responsibility for this. She had shot people before. But murder was a new sensation.

It took her moment to realize that she had shot half of his face off.

Turning, she fell to her knees and vomited up the remainder of her nerve and adrenaline while her mind attempted to process what had just happened. She had seen dead bodies before. And a sickness still rose in the back of her throat, but not like this. Her father would have told her it was not worth it. Not for scum like that. Anya coughed and dry heaved a bit before she felt her body settle. Her vision refocused. How many people had that man killed?

_You are so young._

But he didn't seem to care. It was so matter-of-fact. He would have pulled the trigger, Anya told herself. Except she had been faster.

Her teeth were chattering. She stood up and somehow managed to get her gun back in its holster before dragging the body over to the side of the wall to obscure from view. Anya backed away into the light. There wasn't any blood on her hands, but she felt violently unclean. She tore off out of the alley and into the main thoroughfare. There were people standing outside on their front steps, looking aghast and confused. They had probably heard the gunshots. No one stared at her though. They probably thought she was just as frightened of the promise of violence. She ran and she did not stop even though her knees buckled under her with every step.

The contact still had that same amused expression on his face as he surveyed the scene. Anya stood alongside him, taking through the point of conflict from the initial gunfire in the shop to the chase down along the alleyway. The contact looked from her to the body and back again before conceding that she had reacted in self-defense. He patted her on the shoulder and complimented her on her speed and reaction time, given the evidence before him. Anya felt the light tapping like a punch in her gut. She said her thanks through a leaden tongue. Her Hebrew, the language that—when she spoke—sounded what she believed was most like herself, now came out like a distant echo of another being far away.

The contact told her to expect a phone call. They would be in touch. There was a chance they would be moving out soon. Anya hardly heard him. When she was dismissed she walked through a fog until she was back at the bus station. She felt old, old and sick.

_You are so young._

She flinched, shaking. An older lady standing next to her asked if she was catching a cold. Anya only shook her head, drawing her jacket around her tighter.

On the bus she pressed her forehead against the cool glass. The sun was setting. She was going to be a bit late getting home after all. Two teenagers sat in the aisle next to her own. They were laughing, teasing one another and Anya had the sudden and strong urge to lean over and slap the both of them into silence. She balled her hands up into fists and pressed them into her lap. She fought down waves of sickness until the bus stopped back in her neighborhood. The cool air outside made her feel considerably better once she got off the bus, but the ground still rolled under her feet. Many times she stopped herself to ask what had happened.

When she got to her street she slowed her pace to a crawl. The door to her house felt intimidating. Her legs started to shake again as she reached into her pocket for her key. She could barely keep her hands steady enough to slip it into the lock.

Stop for a moment.

Breathe.

Focusing on each breath she took, Anya managed to turn the key in the lock. For a second, the fear that her father would be just inside and waiting for her nearly made her turn her head to be ill. Luckily, the entryway was empty. Anya snuck upstairs and divested herself of her jacket, holster and gun. She kicked her boots off and was nearly ready to collapse into bed when she heard her father call her from downstairs.

"Anya? Was that you? Come down."

Anya groaned, feeling the world roll over her like a wave. "Yes," she called back. "Yes…coming," she didn't have the energy to argue.

Trudging back downstairs she met her father in the living room. "Sit down, please; I need to talk to you."

Someone had called hadn't they? Their handler? Someone had called to discuss the particulars of what had happened and now he knew. Anya clamped her mouth shut to keep herself from chattering and shaking. She took a seat on the coach in complete silence. Erik sat beside her. He didn't look angry. That must be a good sign, but she couldn't stand to hear if he was proud of what she had done. In many ways she thought that would be much worse than his anger at her recklessness.

"I know what you thought of the books you saw this afternoon," he said.

Anya hoped her sudden exhale could be taken as one of uncomfortable derision and not a gasp of pure relief. She had forgotten those books entirely. How strange that something so important was suddenly so very insignificant.

"You mustn't pay them any mind. My own wish to study how our kind has come to be is not meant to cast doubt on you."

Anya nodded. She wasn't certain if he was lying to her. He probably thought he was telling her the whole truth, but for once Anya did not care. She bit her lip so hard it was a wonder that she hadn't cut it open. She thought she would be sick again.

"Besides," Erik placed a hand on the back of Anya's shoulder. "I was much older than you when my abilities first appeared. You are young yet."

_You are so young._

Anya covered her face with her hands as she burst into tears. She tried to silence herself, but it did no good. She fought for a measure of control. Best to let her father think she was crying from undue stress and frustration than anything else. The phone ringing in the next room was the only thing that managed to still her.

Erik apologized and went to answer. Anya shook her head ineffectively. He did not notice her. Pale in the face, she clutched the edge of one of the couch cushions as she heard him pick up the phone. She knew what it would be. It would be a report. Or it could merely be a statement that they were due to be relocated. They had been staying in Buenos Aires longer than they did in most cities. Anya had been expected that kind of call for some time. There was no reason to believe their handler was calling for any other reason other than that. She thought, rather hysterical, that there was no reason for her father to ever know what exactly had happened today.

She sat alone in her own silence for what felt like an hour, but Anya knew to only be minutes. She could feel her chest trying to cave in with the intensity of her own panicked breathing. Her father was going to be furious, but he couldn't possibly be more enraged with her than she already was with herself.

Anya heard the phone click back into the receiver. Everything tunneled for a moment. She thought about running back into her room and barricading herself inside, but she was paralyzed. He knew. Anya could tell from the silence in the other room and how he lingered out of sight that he must know what she had done. If it had only been an update on relocation he would have come straight out to update her.

Erik reappeared in the open archway leading into the living room. He was looking at her in a way that Anya couldn't quite understand. It wasn't disappointment. Not with her. Nor did he look especially furious and it was always easy to tell when he was in a temper. If that was a subtle attempt at an interrogation it was a good one. Anya couldn't handle the silence a second longer.

"I'm s-s-sorry!" she burst out. "I didn't…I only wanted to…" All of her excuses felt pitiful in her mind. What had she wanted? To prove that she was capable even without her mutant abilities? That seemed a petty reason for a man to be lying dead in an alleyway. She wanted to cry again, but couldn't get enough air down into her lungs. It felt like the panic attacks she would get as a child. It was like drowning in air.

Her father grabbed her and made her take in deep, slow and evenly paced breaths. Anya felt small, hyperaware of every muscle in her body, every bone, the slide of her ribs as her lungs struggled for a sliver of oxygen, and the full sense that she had lost something rather irreplaceable, but she could not identify what it was.

Anya lowered her head, breathing normally now, but humiliated with herself. Erik pushed aside the hair on her forehead, tucking it behind her ears. He didn't seem angry, only concerned and Anya knew she should be grateful, but she found that any expression made it worse. She couldn't raise her head.

"You're on record now," Erik said. "Officially the youngest agent on that record. So he said."

"Old enough to kill a man," Anya said miserably. Saying it made it true, she realized shuddering as if coming out of a nightmare.

Her father tilted her chin up so she was forced to look him in the eyes. "A Nazi. And not worth your remorse."

"I am not remorseful." Anya was shocked to find that this was so. "But…killing him…it was easier than I thought it would be. So fast…."

"I did not want this life for you, _ketsela._ "

"I know."

"How do you feel?"

"A little better," she admitted. Her head felt clearer and her lungs no longer felt as though they might burst.

"They are moving us out, Anya. In two days."

Anya sighed. Too bad. She had liked it here after all. "Where this time?"

"Provence."

"Well then, I had better start brushing up on my French."


End file.
